teenager

You get home from work late. Dog tired. Another double shift at the warehouse. Christmas is coming and everyone’s busy. You look forward to something to eat and some sleep. But your wife is upset. She’s had a hell of a day. It’s that brat of a son of yours. Treats the house like a hotel. Comes and goes as he likes. Missed tea again today. Food wasted. Does he think money grows on trees.

It’s nothing new. You’ve heard it all before. He’s at that age. Eighteen years old and thinks he’s all grown up now he’s left school and got a job himself. You know eighteen isn’t grown up and you’ve told him often enough. He’s still got a lot of learning to do. You tell him there are rules. They have to be kept. That’s life. There are consequences if you don’t stick to them. You’ve taught him that since he was a little kid. He knows that for a fact.

This time it’s different. You eat your tea (or whatever you call your six o’clock meal when it’s eaten at half-past-ten), slurp from a bottle of beer and listen to your wife. Your temper is short at the best of times. As she tells you her story you are ready to explode. “He called you what?” You say you cannot believe it but you can. This is not the first time. You had it out with him before. Where is his respect? Where is yours? You know you cannot let this matter rest.

“Where is he?” you splutter as you clean your plate with a slice of bread and stuff it into your mouth. Your wife bristles. “Upstairs. In his room.” That’s all you need to know. You have to deal with this now. You can’t let it wait until the morning. You know exactly what you are going to do. There is no doubt about that. You are the boss in this house and you have a right to rule the roost. Also, he has disrespected his mother and it is your duty as a father to get retribution.

You finish your beer and rest the bottle on the table. You take a deep breath and haul yourself to your feet. “Let’s do this right now,” you say. Your wife picks up your plate and takes it to the sink and runs the hot water. You know she doesn’t want to be involved. Not in this kind of thing. She says it’s a dad-and-son thing. You don’t argue. There is no point. You know she wants you to do this, she just doesn’t want to see you do it. He’s still her precious boy, you suppose.

You go to the foot of the stairs and stand and listen. There is no sound coming from his bedroom. You know that means nothing. He could be asleep. Could be listening to music on his Smartphone. Might be watching porn and having a wank. You call his name. You get no answer. You call again, louder. Still, no response. Is he taking the piss? You can’t be sure he’s not just ignoring you. Your anger is rising. You stomp up the stairs. There is a light under the door so you know he’s not asleep. You grip the handle ready to storm the room. It is in your hand but you hesitate. What if he is polishing one off? You thump on the door and call his name. You count to ten in your head then throw the door open.

He is laying on the bed, not under the duvet. He is wired for sound (as you know young people no longer say). You can hear a faint rhythmic noise coming from his ear buds. You’ve startled him, his body shakes when he realises it is you. You are in no mood for small talk. “What did you call your mum?” you roar and before he has a chance to respond you repeat, ”What did you say?” His face goes white. He knows exactly what you’re talking about. You see his mouth open and close like a goldfish but he can’t think of anything to say.

“You little …” you just about stop yourself from calling him a dirty name. You know you can’t punish him for using filthy language if you use it yourself. So instead you say, “What have I told you about your mum?” The question makes no sense but he understands what you are trying to say anyway. “Sorry Dad,” he wriggles so that he is now sitting up and not laying down. You stare at your son. His face is still pale, his eyes are damp. He needs a shave.

“Bah,” you say. Sorry, you think. Yes, my lad you’ll soon be sorry. Then you say, “Get down stairs now. Right away. The living room.” You don’t need to say more. He knows exactly what you mean. “Oh Dad!” he wails. “No, Dad!” You move towards the bed ready to grab him by the hair if need be to haul him to his feet. He knows you’ll do it. “No, Dad,” he says again and jumps to his feet. You are blocking his pathway to the door so you stand aside. You fetch him a clip around the head as he passes. “Get downstairs. Now!” you bark.

You hear his soft footsteps on the stairs. You know he will do as you tell him from here on in. This isn’t the first time this sort of thing has happened. You had hoped you wouldn’t need to do it again. You take a deep breath and look around the room. It looks like a bomb’s hit it. The floor is covered with dirty clothes. There is a musty aroma about the place. You can’t place it. It might be dried spunk. There’s probably wodges of soiled toilet paper under the duvet. Or is it the smell of dope? You make a mental note to have a word with him about this. But not tonight.

You make your way downstairs. You can hear music coming from the kitchen. Your wife has the radio on. A little too loud. Sounds like Radio 2 is playing. You ignore this and turn towards the living room. The door is open and you see your son waiting nervously. You pause to look. He is wearing pyjamas. You know he’s always worn pyjamas but you still think it odd for a boy of his age. He’s eighteen, not eight. You think the pyjamas make him look younger, more childlike. You snap out of it. C’mon, it’s not as if the pyjamas have drawings of racing cars all over them. They’re just a cheap pair with checks from Primark.

You walk into the room. Your son’s body stiffens. He doesn’t know where to look. His eyes flicker everywhere, taking in the whole room, but he can’t meet your eye. It is a tiny room and you can’t help but stand close to him. You smell tobacco on his breath. Not for the first time you notice your son is a couple of inches taller than you. He’s stronger too. This doesn’t worry you. It will not stop you doing your duty. You are in charge. You know this. He knows this.

You tell him what your wife told you. He doesn’t deny it. “Why?” you ask, genuinely at a loss to understand. He doesn’t answer. He can’t answer. He doesn’t know. “Well,” you say. “You know what happens now.”

“Oh, Dad,” he wails. He doesn’t say, “But, I’m too old for this.” He knows your thinking on this. Your house. Your rules. Your way or the highway. You have taught him that you believe in discipline. What dad doesn’t tell his son that? You think the trouble with the world today is that dads say they believe in discipline, but they don’t do anything when rules are broken. You believe in discipline, but you also believe in punishment. You think that’s what makes you different. Special, even.

You know there is no more to be said. You unbuckle your belt and draw it through the loops on your jeans. They feel a bit loose and you hope they won’t slip down your hips. The belt is a standard leather thing, available to purchase at all good chain stores. You fold the belt in two and hold it by the buckle. Like this it makes a perfect spanking tool. You know this for a fact. It has (if you like) been road tested many times.

Your son looks mournfully at the belt, now dangling from your right fist. He starts to plead for forgiveness. “Sorry Dad, I won’t do it again. Promise.” What boy doesn’t say these things if he thinks it will get him off a spanking? You take no notice. You slap the belt against your thigh. You nod towards the couch standing against the wall. It is a small two-seater fabric affair. Bought cheaply from Argos one Black Friday.

“Bend over,” you say grimly. You want it to sound like you carry the weight of the whole world on your shoulders. “You know you must be spanked,” you say. He mouths, “Oh, Dad,” one more time, but he does not resist. He never does. He walks to the couch and stands at one side. The couch is against the wall so he cannot go across the back. Instead, he stretches forward and bends over the arm. He is tall and the couch is low so most of his body rests over the seat cushions. He props himself up on his elbows and this raises his bottom at an angle. He keeps his legs straight and his toes just touch the ground. He waits for you. You are pleased he is so submissive.

You stand to his side. He is at a perfect height for you to lash the belt across his backside. You are almost ready to go, but not quite. There is still one thing more to do. You lean over your son and grip the elasticated waist of his pyjama trousers. You tug them over his round buttock cheeks until they are completely bared. You pull them down as far as his knees. You know if you leave them there (rather than taking them all the way to the feet) it will restrict his movement if he decides to kick about a bit during the spanking.

He shows no emotion. You know he expected to have his bottom bared. It is your way. You could demand that he lowers the pyjamas himself before bending over the couch but you know if he did this his meat-and-two-veg would flap about. You don’t want that thank you very much.

You are now ready. Your son’s bum is well padded and can take a sound spanking without damage. You rest the belt across the centre of his cheeks to get an aim, you lift it up and down to test the distance. Then you let fly. A sunset stripe immediately appears. You see you son bury his head in his hands, but otherwise he makes no reaction. You repeat the lash with frequency and intensity. The whole bum quickly goes dark-pink. You know you are warming him up. Your son sucks on his wrist. It is his way of absorbing the pain. He scrunches his face as he successfully stifles “ouches”.

Once the buttocks are glowing red you turn the belt onto the back of his thighs. This is always painful. He wriggles his waist and buckles his knees. You are pleased you left the pyjama trousers there otherwise he might kick out at you. His face is as red as his bum and a coating of sweat glistens on his neck. He headbutts the soft foam seat cushion.

You don’t expect tears and you don’t get them. You are not a brute. You don’t want to flog him into pulp. You are a kind, loving dad and you are making your point. You are punishing his bad behaviour and encouraging your son to strive to do better in future.

You turn the pages of your newspaper. The world is going to Hell in a handcart. War, pestilence: everywhere. The bus drivers are on strike in Manchester. The Barbarians are at the gate. You lean back in your comfortable armchair and puff on your brier pipe. The aroma of sweet tobacco is somewhat consoling. You glance around the study: your terrain. It is a dominated by a dark, leather-topped desk. It might be a hundred years old. You know it is solid and enduring. It also weighs a ton. It has six drawers in two columns of three. There are two armchairs, each made of a wooden frame covered by a tough fabric coloured green. There are three equally heavy straight-backed wooden chairs arranged along one wall. Glass-fronted bookcases cover two sides. In one corner is the a coatstand with mortar-board cap and flowing academic gown dangling. In another is a tall, thin cupboard. A fireplace is unlit. Whatever might happen in the wider world nothing changes here. That is the way you like it.

The minute hand of the clock on the mantelpiece crawls to number twelve. You rustle the Daily Telegraph and turn the pages. Perhaps, there is better news in the sports section. No! England are failing miserably in the Test. The room is stuffy, only one window opens, the others have been stuck fast since long before you took over as housemaster. The bursar promised to get them fixed. That was two years ago. The muggy air makes you a little drowsy. You should like to abandon the study and return to your home, but you cannot. You have one more duty to perform before your day’s work is done.

All is silence. It is time for lights out. The school is preparing for bed. You hear the floorboards squeak in the passageway outside. You glance at the clock one more time. Your visitor is punctual. The squeaking stops. You imagine him standing outside your door, apprehensive. Not wanting to knock. Anxious, fearful even, about the fate that awaits him. Good, you allow yourself a half-smile, that is exactly how it should be.

At last there is a rap on the door. He has plucked up the courage. You wait counting time in your head. Let him sweat a little. Perhaps he will think you are not at home, that he has been given a reprieve. Ha! “Come!” Your call is imperious. It is a command that must be obeyed. Your eyes are fixed on the door. Slowly it eases open. You see the top of his head first, the hair dishevelled. It is followed by a chubby face. It is the kind of face that loves to smile: but not this evening. It is etched in misery.

“Close the door, boy!” you bark. He shudders, turns, looks at the door as if he had never seen it before. It is old and heavy and takes some of his strength to shut. You watch, puffing your pipe, as he moves further into your study. He stands, head bowed, feet slightly apart, a typical schoolboy pose. He is a large boy, a sixth-former, eighteen-years old, but in his dressing gown and bedroom slippers he appears much younger. He wipes his sweaty palms down the side of the thick woollen robe, then clasps his hands behind his back.

You are in no hurry. Your boys prefer you to “just get on with it”. They know why they are here; you know why they are here. But, you think, where’s the sport in that? You carefully fold your newspaper, shuffling the pages so they are carefully aligned. You put it down on a table then you lift yourself from your chair. The boy’s eyes burn into you as slowly you walk across the study and stand in front of the open, unlit fireplace. You turn and face him. He is sweating. Not for the first time he stealthily rubs his palms against the dressing gown. You place your hands behind your back, this is the posture you always adopt when delivering homilies.

You know there is little you can say in such situations. You summarise his misdoings. You demand his confession. This time it is breaking bounds. The young oaf has been at the Three Fishers, a notorious public house in the village. You know many of the senior boys frequent that den of iniquity. You have dealt with many of them in your study. But, you are certain, not all of them. You know that the schoolmaster and schoolboy play a “cat and mouse” game. The boys break the rules, often undetected. That is (if you will) fifteen-love to them. Of course, when they are caught they must accept their punishment (fifteen-all).

“Well, what have you to say for yourself?” you intone. You expect him to say, “Sorry, sir,” or some such banality. Then you can get on with the business at hand. But, the young fool stays silent. Suddenly, he frowns. Ha! He hasn’t been listening to you. “Pah!” you exclaim. (Is, you wonder, “Pah!” actually a word. You use it a lot but never in an adult context. That is, you only utter the word (sound?) when exasperated with silly boys.) “Do not add dumb insolence to your list of crimes,” you tell him.

His fearful stare tells you he has no idea what question you have asked of him. You repeat it and as expected he has nothing pertinent to add. You say nothing, but, hands behind back, you saunter across the study. You cannot see him, but you know his eyes are following you. You stop at the tall, thin cupboard, straighten your back and plunge your hand into your right trouser pocket. You know it is empty save for a small silver-coloured key. It is so tiny and the pocket so deep that you cannot at first locate it. You fumble around looking to all the world that you are playing pocket billiards. Your ire rises. At last you find it and at the second attempt you get it in the lock of the cupboard.

You are certain the boy is now standing in a state of great anxiety. He knows what is located within the cupboard. You lean into it and delve around for a while before you withdraw a long, thin yellow cane. You peer at it intently and replace it. You pull out a second cane. This one is longer and thicker than the first. It is a darkish-yellow-almost-brown colour. It is a Malay cane. It is denser than your standard “senior” canes but still has the traditional crooked handle. You know it will pack a punch.

You hold the cane at the handle with one hand and its tip with the other and flex it. Then you swipe it through the air. It travels at a terrific whoosh! You always do this. You think it adds to the drama of the occasion. It is meant to intimidate a boy. You have no idea if this is successful, certainly the sixth-former standing before you is no stranger to your study, or your canes.

“Take off your dressing gown and place it on my desk,” you speak slowly and softly. You are in total command there is no need to bark orders as if you were a sergeant-major on a parade ground. You watch as he unwraps the robe from his body and carefully folds it. Now, he wears only pyjamas. You swish the cane through the air, enjoying the rushing noise it makes as it flies. Your pulse quickens.

“Put the chair into place,” you tell him. He knows exactly what you mean and takes a grip on the armchair you were not sitting at and turns it so that the back faces into the room. The task completed, he stands back and respectfully puts his hands behind his back. You stand behind him and swish the cane, you notice with satisfaction perspiration soaks the back of his head. You are ready to go. You thwack the arm of the chair with the cane – you know this is completely unnecessary but you like to add to the drama. “Bend over.” You intone the words dreaded by every schoolboy summoned to your study.

He pauses as if sizing up the chair. You know he is familiar with the process. He is tall and the chair low, he leans forward, rests his elbows on the arms and spreads his legs. His face hovers above the old, worn seat cushion. The boy’s bottom is angled across the apex of the chair, it is perfectly positioned for your purpose. You can best describe him as “chunky”; that is, he is not fat, but nor is he slim. His buttocks, loose when he is standing, tighten considerably when stretched for a caning. Now they are firm and round. The cotton material of the pyjamas fits snugly across the buttocks, each cheek is well defined. He has presented you with a terrific target.

He tenses as you “saw” the cane across the fleshiest part of his bum. You tap it three times to get your distance. You stand about three feet to his left (a cane’s distance) and make sure the tip of the cane reaches the far cheek. You lift it off and raise it to the height of your shoulder, then with a slight turn of the body you crack it down at some pace across the centre of his buttocks. It is a manoeuvre you adapted from the golf links. The crack is satisfying (to you, not the boy since he gasps with the shock.) The cane whistles and thuds as you deliver the second stroke. He grips the chair stifling a groan.

You take in a deep breath and hold it there while you lift the cane once more calling up every ounce of strength. You let fly. Bingo! It swipes him on the back of the thighs. Ha! He’ll feel that every time he sits down for the next week. His hips sashay, his head bounces up and down. His neck is scarlet and so (you know from experience) is his bottom.

You lick your arid lips. Your heart pounds. Your palms are sweating. This time you stand on your toes as you swipe the cane higher across the boy’s quivering rear end. He punches his fists into the seat cushion and emits a “sssssss!” through not-quite clenched teeth. The sound reminds you of a steam train settling down. He stamps his feet up and down.

You tap the cane across his bottom again, taking aim. This time higher on the crest of the mounds, closer to his back. The bottom quivers with anxiety. The cut slices his meaty bum with a downward motion. You take a step or two back to admire your handiwork. You are delighted to see thin white lines from the cane embossed across the seat of his pyjamas. There are welts throbbing underneath. The boy’s face and neck are crimson.

You can’t see your face crack into smile. You have a special treat for the boy this evening. You alter your position. Now you lay the cane across his bottom so it runs the bottom of the left buttock to the top of the right cheek – a diagonal shot. Quickly, you raise the cane and with tremendous force (you might be beating a carpet) slash it across the four welts already pulsating across his backside. He wails like a banshee. His feet stamp, he headbutts the seat cushion. He is in great distress. You know he will remember this thrashing for the rest of his life.

Calmly, you reposition yourself and set the cane along the opposite diagonal. Within a second you have imprinted a perfect “X” across his backside. He repeats the shrieking and the stamping and shakes his hips from left to right. You suddenly realise that your nose is dripping. You wipe it with the back of your hand. Slowly, you move to the cupboard and replace the cane.

That done, you turn and survey the scene. An eighteen-year-old schoolboy is draped across the back of the armchair. His bottom still quivers and his knees remain buckled. His face is contorted like a gargoyle. “You may remove yourself,” you quietly tell him. The punishment is over. He has atoned for his misdeed. You must both now get on with your lives.

You return to your armchair and stare down at the pipe in the ashtray. “Go,” you say and wave a hand at the door. He grabs his dressing gown and struggles with the handle and heavy door on his way out. You relight the pipe and pick up the Daily Telegraph. The world outside may be changing, you think, but in this study things will always remain the same.

Like this:

David looked on helplessly. Tears flowed down his kid sister’s face, she sat scrunched up on the couch, shoulders convulsing with sobs.

“I don’t know what to do, I don’t know what to do,” she wailed. David turned his back, he couldn’t bare to watch. Snot was flooding down Carol’s face.

He paced the small living room trying to contain his own anger.

“What can I do?” she howled. “I don’t know what to do.”

You could start by calming down a little, David thought but stopped short of saying it out loud. He didn’t blame his sister. It wasn’t her fault. It had all come as an almighty shock. She was right, what was she to do? What were they to do?

“I had no idea,” Carol wiped her face on the sleeve of her cardigan. “No idea. None at all.” She searched a pocket, found a handkerchief and dapped at her eyes. She was beginning to get a grip.

“It’s all my fault,” she sniffed. Her hanky was already soaked. David reached into his own pocket and found his own handkerchief. Man-sized. For industrial strength weeping. It was neatly pressed. Clean this morning. Unused. He handed it over. Carol took it and dried her face, smudging her makeup.

“It’s not your fault, Sis, you mustn’t think that,” he said. His assurance lacked authenticity. Could it be her fault? he wondered.

“I never knew,” Carol’s words came in gulps, but the tears had stopped. For now. “Not until the police rang my doorbell. I never knew.”

David shrugged his shoulders. Kept his opinion to himself. Could she be to blame?

“Brought home in a police car. For all the neighbours to see. The disgrace,” Carol breathed deeply, maintaining control. “I never knew.”

David paced the room once more, then stood looming over his sister. “Smoking dope. In Widdicombe Woods,” he said as if she didn’t already know the sordid details. “At least they’re not charging him.”

“I know,” Carol flared, “The police just don’t care. He’s on drugs and they couldn’t give a damn. They just take them home to their parents. What am I supposed to do about it?”

“He doesn’t have a father …” David began but tailed off unsure where he was going with this.

“Oh so it’s my fault is it!” she snapped.

“No Sis, I just meant, oh I don’t know. If he had a man about the house. You know when he was growing up.”

“We’re well shot of that cheating bastard. At least I got the house.”

“Yes, but,” David did not want to go through the details of the acrimonious divorce all over again. “I just meant that Matt might have benefitted from a firm hand. You know growing up.”

“Oh so now I’m a bad parent.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“I can’t discipline my own son,” Carol’s voice rose an octave.

“Well,” David paused to gather courage, “Not discipline so much but punishment.”

“Punishment?”

“Yeah, punishment. For when discipline breaks down.”

Carol stared, her eyes on stalks, “What on earth are you talking about?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” David didn’t want an argument. Not now. Not with his sister in this state. “You know, what happens when he breaks the rules.”

She peered at her brother trying, and failing, to read the expression on his face. “You’ve lost me now.”

“Oh for pity’s sake. You know. Maybe a firm hand ..”

“Firm hand? What firm hand? Where?”

David smiled, “Well across the backside now and again might have helped.”

“Ha!” it was a snort, not a laugh. “You think he needs a spanking. He’s eighteen for chrissake. A bit too old don’t you think.”

“Hmmm,” David sat in an armchair opposite his sister. “Is it? Really? Do you think so?”

“Are you serious?”

“Well why not? Like you said yourself ‘What are you to do?’ Do you have any plan?”

Carol sat moodily. In a huff. No she hadn’t a plan. But a spanking. Did people still spank their kids, never mind their eighteen-year-old student sons? “So I’m supposed to take him over my knee and spank him with my hairbrush?”

David grinned. It helped disguise his thought: Many eighteen-year-olds would jump at the chance to be spanked by an older woman. Instead, he said, “I could do it,” he paused and added, “If you would like me to , that is.”

“Well what’s your suggestion?” he snapped back. “Ground him? Send him to bed early without any supper?” He leaned forward in his chair, encroaching into his sister’s space, “Do you think that’s going to nip this in the bud?”

“Jesus H. Christ,” she shook her head, “I don’t believe this.”

….

David didn’t believe it either. Not really. But even so it happened. The next afternoon he visited the house once more. Matt had been told to be at home for his uncle’s visit. The pair had not been close while Matt grew up. David had worked abroad in developing countries for much of his adult life and had only returned to Brocklehurst sixteen or so months ago. David was a little aloof around Matt as might be expected from a plantation manager who had come to expect deference and instant obedience from his young workers. He wasn’t averse to swishing a heavy cane across backsides when he though the occasion demanded.

David had that indefinable quality of the stern taskmaster. He could quell a rebellion at fifty paces. Matt had never encountered anything quite like him. It unnerved him.

“Stand there,” Uncle David clicked his fingers and pointed to a spot in the middle of the living room the moment Matt entered. As if in a spell, the teenager obeyed instantly. “Now, young man,” David knew how to lecture an errant worker. How to list the defects, the misbehaviours, the wickedness. How to draw out a confession from even the most unruly lad. Matt was like putty in his hands.

The full sordid story unfolded. The cannabis smoking in the woods (not the first time, but definitely the last if Uncle David had his way), the ride in the police car, the shame brought on Matt’s mother. The boy’s face flushed at first before turning a deeper crimson. His eyes glazed, then watered. David had expected airy indifference from Matt.

The lecture was over. Now it was time for action. At the plantation he would order a boy to bend over his desk. Without question (and certainly no argument) he would submit himself submissively for a caning. How would Matt react? David was prepared for a struggle. He might have to force the teenager face down over the dining room table and take swats at his rear end as best he could.

He had no cane of course. That would be David’s weapon of choice. He knew how to extract maximum pain with minimum effort from a metre or so of whippy rattan. That option was not available. Punishment canes were not readily available for sale. He supposed he could go online, but time was at the essence – and anyhow he had no desire to do business with a fetish or sex shop somewhere.

He had searched for a suitable alternative. Carol’s hairbrush was a cheap plastic effort from Boot’s. There were no bedroom slippers in the house, no purpose-made paddles. He settled on a belt. He didn’t have many; one made of heavy leather would have to do. He had left it in readiness waiting on the table. Now was the time to use it.

He took a deep breath, “You deserve to be punished,” David had rehearsed a little speech. It wasn’t too different from the one he used at the plantation. “I want you to bend over that chair,” he pointed to a cheap fabric and wooden armchair as if there was any doubt which he meant. Matt’s eyebrows knitted, his forehead wrinkled. His nose twitched. His brain whirled. He said nothing. David watched intently as his nephew processed the information. It was now or never; the teenager would either submit or rebel. And, rebel big time.

Matt’s nose twitched once more, he sucked in a lung-full of air and with out a word or hesitation he turned to look at the chair. He took one step forward, hesitated a moment, then took a second. He was close to the back of the chair. David watched as the boy appeared to debate with himself. Was he daring himself on? He rubbed the palms of his hands together and leaned forward. He was of tall, thin build. He reached ahead of himself and gripped the front of the cushion and rested his elbows on the wooden arms. His groin rested on the apex of the chair and he parted his long legs by a metre-and-a-half so that he didn’t have to bend his knees to get his bottom angled in the ideal position for punishment.

Uncle David breathed a sigh of relief. There was to be no unseemly struggle after all. He was far from sure he would have been able to get the lad face down over the table. Still, he thought, as he retrieved the belt and slowly folded it into thirds, that was all irrelevant now. He stood to the left of his target. Matt was a fit lad (in more than one sense of the word) and stretching across the low armchair emphasised his muscles. His bottom was hard and firm – the phrase “buns of steel” could have been invented for him.

Uncle David fingered the belt in his hands, all to aware of its flimsiness. It would hardly make a dent in Matt’s backside. He hoped all this would not be in vain. This was supposed to be a punishment, intended to teach Matt a valuable lesson. To deter him from future drug taking. Oh well, Uncle David thought, if the pain doesn’t teach him maybe the humiliation of being forced to present himself submissively to an older man for a spanking would have some effect.

He took his aim by resting the belt across the centre of both buttocks, trying for the patch of denim between the two back pockets. He tap-tap-tapped the leather, then pulled the belt away and raised it in an arc before bringing it down with extreme force across the boy’s bum. The sound of the Crack! of leather on denim bounced off the four walls in the small room. A faint line appeared across the jeans where the belt had landed, but Matt remained motionless.

Undeterred Uncle David pounded twelve lashes across Matt’s backside, all running parallel to one another. Not a single square centimetre of the bum was unattended. Still he teenager did not react. Uncle David paused and stepped forward a little so he could get a clear look at the boy’s face. It was bright and open; a little red but that could be because his head was angled at an unusual position. The older man took aim once more and landed another twelve. Than he let fly with a dozen more.

His arm was aching. It probably hurt a lot more than Matt’s bum, Uncle David thought ruefully. This was no good. He had done his best. How he wished he had a cane at his disposal. Uncle David was defeated, but he would not let on. “Stand up,” he intoned in the severest voice he could muster. He stood back and watched the boy haul himself to his feet. Matt stood, head bowed, staring intently at his own trainers. Then he raised his head and for the first time that afternoon looked directly into his uncle’s eyes.

No word was spoken. Matt scrunched up his nose, blinked heavily four or five times. Silently, he took hold of his own belt and swiftly unbuckled it. He had the front of his jeans open before Uncle David realised what was happening. In a trice the jeans were at Matt’s feet, he turned on his heels, dived across the back of the chair and resumed his submissive position.

Uncle David needed no further invitation. Matt’s underwear was off the briefest kind, they hardly covered his buttock cheeks. There was but the faintest colouring on them from the belting so far. Encouraged by the terrific target now presented to him Uncle David found his aim and whipped the leather across the nearly-bared bum. He was rewarded by a series of sunset stripes across the nearly-white flesh. Matt’s head rose and fell with each lash. He felt those alright. Crack! Crack! Crack! It is a cliché to say the beating was like machinegun fire, but in truth that’s exactly how it did sound. The noise was complemented by a series of “ahhhs and ohhhs” slipping through Matt’s clenched teeth.

Uncle David had found his second wind. Tirelessly, he pounded the leather into Matt’s tight buttocks. He paused for a moment to catch his breath but also to grip hold of the boy’s underwear. Uncle David had two options. One was to tug them down over Matt’s thighs and leave them on top of the teenager’s jeans at his feet. He choose the second. He gripped the flimsy briefs and pulled tightly thereby giving the boy the most painful wedgie. His buttocks were completely bare but the cotton rode up into his crack. The effect was the same as a full bare-bottomed thrashing, but without the added humiliation of exposing the crack and hole to general view.

Uncle David lost count. Maybe he lashed the leather thirty, forty or fifty more times. Both buttocks were scarred with red stripes, some turning blue at the edges. None of the flesh was left unscorched. Uncle David believed in punishment; he did not believe in torture. The boy’s bum was on fire, tears rolled down his face, his head rose and fell, his hips wriggled from side to side. He stamped his feet up and down. It was the definition of a sound spanking.

Enough. Uncle David wiped sweat from his forehead and only now realised his shirt was soaked with the exertion. “You may stand,” he barked. Slowly, Matt pushed his hands against the arms of the chair and rose unsteadily to a standing position. Immediately his hands rubbed at his roasting buttocks. He kneaded at sore flesh. It made no difference to the level of pain. It never does.

Matt wheezed, drawing in great gulps of air, his temples throbbed almost as much as his buttocks. The room spun around him, his heart beat fast, his eyes stood on stalks. His Uncle David was a mere blur across the room. Behind his eyes he saw every colour of the rainbow. It was the best high he had ever experienced.

Like this:

I don’t know how to begin. It happened to me more than 35 years ago and I haven’t thought about it since. So why suddenly have I remembered? I don’t know. It happened at Christmas time, so maybe that’s what’s sparked it.

I don’t know how to write a short story. How do you start? What comes next? How does it finish? I Googled “Writing Short Stories” and it said there’s an eight-point story arc. I’ve no idea what that means so let me just tell it as it comes to me and we’ll see where that takes us.

It was nineteen-eighty-two in Huddersfield. That’s a town in Yorkshire in the north of England. It was a rundown place. All the mills had long since closed and nothing much had replaced them. I worked at a funeral parlour (I think the Americans call them morticians). I was eighteen and had been there since I left school. It was a family business: Shadrack and Son. There weren’t many of us there. How many people do you need to bury the dead? Old Mr Shadrack was the father and Young Mr Shadrack the son.

I never had a job title, but I was the office boy, I suppose. I did paperwork, ran errands and generally looked mournful around the place when potential customers came in.

It happened close to Christmas. Because a new year was about to start Old Shadrack had hundreds of calendars printed up. They had photographs of local places and a sad motto for each month. Most of all though they had the funeral parlour’s name, address and such like on them. My job was to put them in envelopes write the name of local dignities and the rest on the front and take them to the post office. Don’t ask me why Old Shadrack thought the Mayor of Huddersfield or Alderman Higginbottom would want a calendar from a funeral parlour hanging on their wall; mine was not to reason why. Fancy being reminded of death every day of the week. Especially since the Alderman would never see seventy-five again.

So, I was given the money for stamps and sent to the post office. I forget how much a single stamp cost back in those days but whatever it was multiplied by about two hundred came to a tidy sum. More than a week’s wages for me.

Well, I figured, who would ever know? I was a kid and money was always short. There were records to buy and football matches to attend and new clothes to be worn. And, of course, Christmas was coming. Wasn’t I entitled to a Christmas bonus? My work was arse-achingly boring and sitting in that stuffy office day after day with the stench of embalming fluid always in my nostrils …

Sorry, I’ve strayed from the plot a bit. It didn’t take me long to decide what to do. I hid the calendars under my bed and in a manoeuvre that some would say had military precision over the next few days I transferred them twenty or so at a time to the local refuse dump. I kept the money.

To be honest with you I should make it clear that my story isn’t one of those “Northern” stories of abject poverty and destitution. I did not live on bread and scrape, nor did I go to work each day with the arse hanging out of my trousers. My boots (boots! Who am I kidding) were not falling from my feet. There was no weekly trip to the pawn shop to get a few coppers on the bed lining. Am I over doing this do you think?

What I’m trying to say is that I stole the money because I wanted to, not because I had to. I lived with my parents who were both in secure jobs (hurrah for the local council) and was well looked after. The money would be spent in the pubs and the clubs that were being to open around town (yes, even in Huddersfield) for the newly-wealthy young.

I suppose it was a month or so later when it happened, the thing I’m trying to tell you about. Certainly Christmas had come and gone and we had seen in the New Year. Old Shadrack was himself a member of all kinds of local clubs and organisations (Rotary, the Lions) and more churches than you could shake a stick at. Churches are full of old people and old people die and the families of the deceased like to do their funeral business with people they know. At one and the same time Old Shadrack must have been a Catholic, a protestant, an Anglican, a nonconformist and (no surprise here) a Jew (no offense meant).

Sorry, I’ve lost the plot. Old Shadrack was a man who knew the value of a shilling and was keen to make sure his glossy calendars were paying for their keep. I can imagine the conversations he must have had. “Calendar Shadrack? No, I don’t think I received one from you this year. Sent in the post you say.”

By the time he had heard this for the fourth or fifth time, he was on to me. Shall I describe Old Shadrack to you. He was a tall, wiry man of about sixty years, I guess. He was broad at the shoulders and not as wide at the waist as people like my dad. He had very little hair and what there was he brushed across his head from left to right. We used to call it a Bobby Charlton, like the famous footballer, although he had stopped playing ten years before. He was much taller than me (Old Shadrack, not Bobby Charlton). His face was gnarled and lined and he always looked as miserable as sin. I don’t know for sure if he was really like that as a person, but it was how he conducted himself at all times. After all, who wants to see a funeral director grinning from ear to ear?

So, one day he calls me into his office to have it out with me. He says he’s heard the calendars weren’t delivered and do I know anything about it. I says back that I know nothing; I says I posted them etc. etc. Old Shadrack just looks at me really mournfully. Like I was a customer just come into the shop to tell him his whole family has been wiped out in a car crash in the High Street.

“Nay, lad, think ont,” he says. He had a thick Yorkshire accent. I don’t know how to write Yorkshire, so I’ll just put it down in plain English. He says to me, No, lad. Think carefully about it. He speaks like he’s carrying the weight of the whole world on his shoulders. You’re in a hole, don’t dig yourself in any deeper. Then he asks me again whether I know about the calendars and I confess to it.

There are no tears, no hand-wringing. I am not hanging my head in shame. Why did you do it lad? He asks and I tell him, Because I wanted the money. That was it really. Like I said before this was nineteen-eighty-two, not nineteen-thirty-two. I didn’t have to beg for my job. If he sacked me I wouldn’t starve. I’d just go and get another one somewhere; equally as boring no doubt but there you are.

I didn’t intend to look or sound smug, but I reckon that’s how Old Shadrack heard my confession. He flares at me and says something like, This is theft lad. Real theft. A crime. I should call the police. They could put you away. What would your mother say? She’d die of shame.

It was then I think I remembered something that had been in the news a lot at that time. There was a lot of problems with juvenile delinquents (so-called) and the Tory Government had introduced something they called “The Short, Sharp, Shock.” It was where they sent young people away to borstal-like institutions and they had to live on bread and water or some such. I might not have got the details quite right there, but it was like some kind of military boot camp.

They didn’t have corporal punishment. Not like in the olden days. Mind you there was quite a lot of people around, including members of parliament, who were shouting, “Bring back the birch!” There was a lot of football hooliganism around, where rival supporters would beat each other up and vandalise towns and such like. The football club in Leeds, which is just down the road from Huddersfield, had a particularly vicious set of hooligan followers. One of the stars of the team had said that football hooligans should be birched with their trousers down on the pitch at Elland Road in front of all the supporters. Imagine that on Match of the Day on Saturday night telly. Let Gary Lineker, or whoever presented it back then, make a silly pun about that. Come to think of it wasn’t it Jimmy Hill? Now, he looked the type who wouldn’t mind being the one holding the birch.

Sorry, I’ve strayed again haven’t I. So, Old Shadrack says I could be reported to the police and sent away. Even for a first offence. That, he says, as if he is very knowledgeable about such things, is the point of the Short, Sharp Shock. It’s to stop young people re-offending. So by now, as I remember it after 35 years, I am more than a bit concerned. I stole the money, I’ve been found out, I am guilty as hell. If the police are called they have me bang to rights and within no time I will be carted off to borstal (or whatever they called it in the nineteen-eighties).

I am no longer the cocky, confident boy who doesn’t care too much about losing his job. And Old Shadrack rubs it in some more by saying that once I have a criminal record, especially for thieving from my employer, I won’t ever be able to get a decent job again. He lets all that sink in. I am stewing now.

This is when Old Shadrack tells me it does not have to be like this. The police don’t have to be called. I don’t have to get carted off to choky. Anyway, he says, the publicity in the local newspaper would be bad for his business. People will think he’s a fool. He says all this and I am standing there in front of him every inch like a naughty boy called into the headmaster’s office. I felt like it too, even though I was eighteen at the time. He goes on and on at me about how bad and wicked I have been and I just stand there, staring down at my feet (like you do in this kind of situation) and I have no idea where Old Shadrack is going with his monologue.

Then he gets to the point. I will have the money I stole stopped from my wages and I must take a spanking. Spanking? I didn’t understand. Spanking? What did he mean exactly? This was the nineteen-eighties and corporal punishment was unheard of. Schools were giving up the cane and I didn’t know of anyone who had ever been walloped at home.

I didn’t express my ignorance out loud but maybe the dumb expression on my face encouraged Old Shadrack to put some flesh on the bones of his proposition. He says to me the idea is I take down my trousers and bend across his knees and he smacks me on my behind. He said it as “but-tocks” as if it was two words.

Now, don’t forget this was nineteen-eighty-two, not today. Today if an older man tells a younger lad to take down his trousers and bend across his knee we’d all go, “Woooah. He’s a woofter.” And we might even call the cops on him. It’s true corporal punishment wasn’t much in use back then, but I think we all still understood the concept of it. Remember all those MPs calling for the return of the birch. You break a rule, you misbehave, you steal from your employer, you get punished. I was (am) no philosopher, but I got that.

Well, he says this to me calmly and gets up from behind his desk. I say nothing back because I don’t know what to say. I haven’t decided what to do although anyone in my situation with an ounce of sense would be unbuckling his belt and pulling the fly on his trousers. While I’m dithering Old Shadrack is pulling a chair into the middle of the office. It’s just a cheap plastic office chair. I’m not sure why I remember that.

“Well,” he says again, and he sits down. He stares at me while he wriggles his bum to get comfortable. I stand there not knowing what to do. What would you do if it were you? Would you go across the knee of your boss? Let him spank your bum like you were what, nine years old? I don’t suppose I was a very bright lad. If I had been I would have realised straight away that I could never get away with stealing the stamps money. I wouldn’t be in this situation. Okay, so I wasn’t bright, but I wasn’t entirely dumb either. Old Shadrack was offering me a way out. Go over his knee get my but-tocks smacked and live another day. I didn’t have a great debate with myself. I had an instinct for self-preservation.

I was wearing dark grey trousers which were part of a suit, but I had left my jacket on the back of my chair. It was always there. It was an old trick, you could skive off for hours on a mission for yourself but if you left your jacket on your chair people assumed you had just popped out for a moment – to the bogs or somewhere.

Sorry, let me get back to the plot. I was wearing dark grey trousers and a white shirt. I could have passed for one of the sixth-formers at the local grammar school. Except for my hair was quite long and untidy in the style of the time. I knew I was going to go through with it. I was going to take my spanking. Maybe I even gave a heavy sigh at the inevitability of it. Anyhow, I unbuckled my belt and loosened the waist of my trousers. Have you ever done this? Stood in front of a guy sitting on a chair, his legs parted and waiting patiently for you to prepare yourself to be spanked? I surprised myself by how calm I was. I tugged on the zipper and the trousers slithered down my thighs. If I close my eyes now as I write this I can picture the scene perfectly.

The trousers snag at my knees so I reach down and push them so they end up bunched over my shoes. I am wearing fashionable underpants (light blue, if I recall correctly). Old Shadrack looks at me; he seems unconcerned. My own pulse rate is quickening. I have never before stood in my pants in front of another man – not even a doctor.

Old Shadrack wrinkles his nose like there’s maybe a bad smell somewhere and then he says, “Get on with it lad. Bend over my knee.” I hesitate. I don’t know what to do. I mean I don’t know how to do this. I have never been spanked and have never seen anyone else being spanked. I relied on instinct. I stood to Old Shadrack’s right hand side and put my hands on his thigh and then slowly lowered myself over. The rest was pretty straightforward. I reached my arms out in front of me and rested the palms of my hands against the hard wooden floorboards. Everything else took care of itself. My toes touched the ground behind me and my bum (the target area as it were) was angled over his right thigh. It was surprisingly comfortable, but what was to happen next was far from that.

Old Shadrack was in complete control. I felt a bit of a ninny bent over his knee submissively waiting for the spanking to begin. I had no idea how much this would hurt me. A lot, I supposed. Wasn’t that the point of it? A spanking should be painful otherwise why take all that trouble.

It was a first for me but clearly not for Old Shadrack. I felt him take hold of the tail of my white shirt and gently push it up my back; not far but enough to keep it clear of the target area. Old Shadrack patted my bottom and gently rubbed the palm of his right hand across my right buttock and then the left. He was making sure all the creases in my cotton underpants were smoothed out. I couldn’t see (obviously, as I was staring at the floorboards) but my pants must have now fitted like a second skin.

I felt his body move and he gripped me around my middle. This shocked me. Old Shadrack had me pinned down; my head low and bottom high. There was no escape. He tells me that although he is using his hand and it is on my underwear it is still going to sting and he expects me to stay in position. Next thing a sharp smack strikes me across the underside of my right cheek, followed by another on the right. Within seconds Old Shadrack had smacked me across both buttocks; he went round the circuit hitting the undersides, the top of the mounds and across the fleshiest parts. Each slap was not particularly painful but he hit hard and fast and the ache of the spanking quickly built up. I wriggled my body from left to right and my arms flailed. It was like I was trying to swim away off his lap.

Old Shadrack knew his business. He increased the strength of his grip. I wasn’t going anywhere. Not until he was ready. He didn’t say a word. The only sounds in the small office were the slaps of his palm against the tight flesh of my bum and my increasingly heavy breathing. It hurt, but to be honest I was not in much pain. My buttocks must have been warm to the touch. My wriggling and writhing was a reflex action to the assault on my body, a more experienced boy could have taken that spanking without fuss.

Suddenly he stopped. I was staring down, catching my breath. It was over. I expected him to release his hold on me to let me to stand. Instead, I felt his body move once more. He had gripped the elasticated waistband of my pants. I voiced a protest. Old Shadrack said nothing. With three tugs he exposed enough of the bare flesh on my rear end for his purposes. The spanking resumed at what seemed to be double the speed and twice the strength. The skin on Old Shadrack’s palm was hard and gnarled. Without the protection of my cotton briefs the pain I experienced increased many fold. I had never felt such hurt before. He could have been using a hairbrush on me.

So there I was bare arse to the wind feeling very foolish indeed while Old Shadrack hammered his hand across my naked bottom. I had no idea what a strong man he was. The strength in his right hand seemed to grow not diminish. When would it end? It took all my self-control to stop crying out, “Stop! Stop!” My bum feels like it’s been set on fire. I try to reach back with my hand to protect myself, but so total is Old Shadrack’s domination he has me positioned across his knee at an angle so that’s physically impossible. I told you he had done this before. He gives me ten or a dozen really hard swats like he’s punishing me for trying to cover up. If I had any sense I’d just let him get on with spanking me, it would hurt less in the long run. As Old Shadrack beat into my rump I silently vowed never to steal again.

It was about then that there was a slight tap on the door. A voice outside spoke softly. Mr Shadrack, it says, Mrs Boycott is here to see you. The voice is Young Shadrack and Mrs Boycott is a bereaved widow. We have her husband downstairs waiting to be embalmed. Old Shadrack makes a kind of grunting sound and says he’ll be along in a moment. He seems disappointed to be interrupted. I had been over his knee for about five minutes. He releases his grip and I slide off his knees onto the floor. My bottom is very tender. There is no mirror in the office so I have to swivel my body a little to get a view of my bum. The sight astounds me. Not a square inch has been left unattended. Both cheeks and the back of my thighs are a deep pink. I am astonished to see the outline of Old Shadrack’s hand reproduced time and again across my flesh. Hurriedly, I pull up my trousers and pants and tuck in my shirt. My face is burning and must be as red as my bottom. Without a word Old Shadrack leaves the room.

Old Shadrack never spoke to me about the incident. I avoided him as much as humanly possible, which wasn’t easy in a small firm. Soon I forgot about it entirely. After a few months I had repaid the stolen money. I celebrated this by handing in my notice at Shadrack and Son. I moved to Manchester and took a job in the Co-op where I have worked ever since.

I still don’t know what it was that made me think about that spanking after all these years, but I’m glad I shared my tale with you. I wonder how many other people out there also went across Old Shadrack’s knee.

Harry slouched disconsolately in the corner seat. The third-class carriage was empty, as was most of the train. A Thursday afternoon in late November was not a popular time to travel. His buttocks ached on the hard wooden seat. He hugged his arms around his body. Miserably, he shivered. At this rate, he reflected, he’d end up in the hospital with pneumonia.

It had been five hours earlier that the porter at St. Tom’s had put him unceremoniously on the train. There was no word of farewell; the brute hadn’t even carried his suitcase. That’s how they treated a chap when he was sacked.

At last, the steam train chugged into Weatherstone Halt. Journey’s End. Or, Harry supposed, New Journey Starts. What did his future have in store? Who knew? The only certainty was that first he must face Uncle Gascoigne.

He stepped from the train into a swirling mist. It engulfed the small platform; he could barely see a hand in front of his face. His feet slipped on the frost beneath his feet. An eerie silence enveloped him. If Harry had been a reader, he might have likened it to a scene from a Victorian ghost story. He stood, uncertain, suitcase by his side. How was he to get to Weatherstone Manor? It was some distance off; too far to walk with a heavy case.

“Hello Master Harry!” it was a croaking voice. It seemed to come from nearby, but the mist was thickening and he couldn’t see. “Over here!” As if by some magic the fog cleared and Harry saw an old man wrapped in a heavy overcoat, a scarf and a big woollen hat. It was Tom, his uncle’s Faithful Retainer.

The journey by pony and trap was short. A biting wind tore through Harry. He wore only his school blazer and it was no use against the cold. Nor did his grey trousers give protection from the wind. Tom, drove in silence. He was a man of few words as was expected from a devoted servant. He geed the pony and steered it along the narrow lanes to the Manor. His was the only vehicle on the road. Harry hugged his own body with cold and let the wintry countryside pass him by unnoticed.

The Manor loomed; an imposing Gothic pile. Even on a summer’s day it looked unwelcoming. On this day and in these circumstances it seemed especially hostile. Tom steadied the pony while Harry climbed down. “I’ll take care of your case, Master Harry,” the Faithful Retainer spoke with a hint of regret, “Your uncle says you are to go directly to the library.” He studied his own hands intently.

“Oh,” Harry spoke softly. The summons had not been unexpected, but he had hoped there might be some interval before he faced Uncle Gascoigne. He trudged towards the door. The inside of the manor was as ugly and imposing as the outside. The hallway could have been the entrance to a municipal town hall. It might be large enough to house a cricket pitch. Several doors of heavy dark oak ran into it. Harry was not concerned with these. The room he sought was up the imposing spiral staircase on the first floor. He trudged up it.

Harry was a boy of little imagination, so as he made his journey he did not reflect on its similarity to St. Tom’s. He had been summoned to the housemaster’s study countless times, each journey requiring a long trek through School House, along a narrow passageway towards a heavy wooden door. On the other side he would be confronted by a cane-wielding master. What happened next can be safely left to the reader’s imagination.

Harry reached the library door and paused, unsure how to proceed. Should he turn the handle, fling open the door wide and burst into the room and offer Uncle Gascoigne a cheerful “Hello Uncle! I’m home!” Perhaps not. Uncle Gascoigne was not by temperament a cheerful fellow and was generally feared and respected in equal measure by his household and the tenants of the estate he ruled over. He was dreaded by the petty villains who appeared before him at the local magistrates’ bench. Harry tapped his knuckles respectfully against the panelled door.

“Come!” the boomed command was self-important. Uncle Gascoigne was a man who demanded obedience. And invariable received it. With a quaking hand, Harry turned the handle and eased the door open, making only enough space for him to squeeze into the room. He stood anxiously. Uncle Gascoigne sat in a large, padded armchair, a cup and saucer held daintily in his hands. “Close the door boy! Close the door! You’re letting the heat out!” he barked.

Once this was done, Harry stood, hands deferentially held behind his back. Uncle Gascoigne called the room his “library” but in truth it was a drawing room with shelves of books. Harry had never once troubled himself to handle any of the hundreds of volumes that surrounded him. As well as an armchair the room contained a dining table, matching chairs and an ancient Chesterfield-type couch.

Uncle Gascoigne returned his cup and saucer to the table and stretched his arms wide. He was an imposing figure, standing head and shoulders above Harry, who himself was no dwarf. He wore a frockcoat, waistcoat and striped trousers. Harry did not know this but he had recently returned from the Magistrates’ Court. Even as they spoke seven youths were under the lash of the local police sergeant.

Uncle Gascoigne frowned. He gripped the lapel of his coat and steadied himself. This was how he stood when making speeches at the Tory Association. He had prepared some words. Harry did not change his stance; hands behind back, head high. At St. Tom’s the form was always to look at a master when he was jawing you.

“Since your parents passed on,” Uncle Gascoigne droned, “I have taken care of you. I have paid for your education.” He delivered a liturgy on his generosity. “So this is how you repay me.” He picked up a letter from the table and (for dramatic effect) peered closely at it. It was an unnecessary gesture since he knew its contents by heart. It was a letter from the headmaster at St. Tom’s detailing Harry’s misdeeds leading to the inevitable conclusion that the eighteen-year-old must leave the school forthwith.

“You spend your time playing billiards in some God-awful public house when you should be at your studies.”

Harry suppressed a smile. He did much more at the Three Fishers than play billiards, but it was better that the headmaster and Uncle Gascoigne did not hear about that.

“A disgrace!” Uncle Gascoigne had used similar words to the louts at the court earlier that day. For it was true, Harry was no better than they. For all his privileges, he was a wastrel. “We shall have to consider your future at a later date,” Uncle Gascoigne said, his puffy eyes narrowing, “For now …” he let the words trail away and glanced across the room. Harry followed his gaze. His heartbeat skipped, standing in the corner of the room was a large enamel bucket and soaking in water and sticking from its top was a freshly-cut birch rod.

Silently, Uncle Gascoigne took hold of one of the dining room chairs and moved it so that it was in front of Harry. His beady eyes met those of his nephew. He hesitated, trying to read the mind of the wayward teenager. Harry’s eyes were dull; unreadable. “Bah!” Uncle Gascoigne ejaculated. “Take off your blazer, put it on the table. Lower your trousers and underwear. Bend over the chair.” It was a simple set of commands, sternly spoken. The boy would do as he was instructed, Uncle Gascoigne was in no doubt.

While Harry climbed out of his school blazer, Uncle Gascoigne stood over the enamel bucket and gripped the birch rod by its handle. He swished it through the air allowing droplets of water to dampen the solid wooden floor. He tested the rod in his hands, taking its weight. Birch rods were made for purpose and each was unique. They could be long or short; heavy or light. They might have six branches or dozens.

The one Uncle Gascoigne held was not in fact strictly-speaking a birch rod, since it was constructed of hazel branches. Hazel was more easily available in local woods and had the properties of both suppleness and strength. It had been made at the local police station. It was unheard of for Uncle Gascoigne to request them to make him personally a birch, but they asked no questions when he did. Col. Trumpington-Smythe, his fellow magistrate, often made such a demand.

The rod in Uncle Gascoigne’s hand had been expertly constructed. There were fifteen twigs, each almost perfectly straight, that were between twenty-six and thirty inches long. They had been clipped into a conical shape. The ends and tips had been trimmed and a handle bound with cord made. It tapered gracefully from handle to tip and felt comfortable and balanced as he held it. He swished it through the air once more, it had been soaked in water overnight and felt fresh and supple.

Harry watched aghast. His blazer was safely laying on the table but his trousers and underwear were still in their rightful position. “Quickly!” Uncle Gascoigne snapped. “Or do you want additional strokes?” It was a question that needed no answer. Harry had no doubt that his uncle was serious. He forced his hands to unfasten his trousers, the weight of the heavy wool sent them hurtling to his knees. He wore fashionable athletic underwear of the short variety. He hesitated until Uncle Gascoigne’s heavy, impatient breath spurred him onwards. Soon he was bare from the waist to his ankles.

“Bend over the chair,” Uncle Gascoigne swiped the birch, “I assume you know the drill.” Indeed Harry did. Schoolmasters had their own peculiarities when administering canings. One might require a boy to present himself touching toes, knees straight; that was probably the most “traditional” position known. It was, however, not the most efficient method. The posterior was stretched and bent at such and angle that the size of the target was diminished. Others would make a boy go over a chair. How this was done depended on the furniture available. The back of an armchair could be used, but so many of them were tall and a boy could not properly reach over. Most studies had at least one hard wooden chair and this was perfect. A boy faced the seat, gipped tightly on both sides, spread his legs, arched his back and jutted his rear end out. A perfect target, offering up a generous expanse of stretched bottom for the schoolmaster’s cane. Harry chose that latter position.

Uncle Gascoigne was no expert at birching. It was one of his roles in life to order others to perform such acts. He acted on instinct. He supposed the general idea was to assault as great an area of the naked buttocks now on show as possible. The posterior should end up raw and tender, but there was no need to leave the boy bloodied and battered.

He took up position to Harry’s left. The cheeks quivered in anticipation of the assault to come. The other end of Harry appeared stoical. He held the seat cushion tightly, his eyes focused on a small stain on its fabric. His breathing was easy. Uncle Gascoigne rested the birch against his nephew’s bottom so that it covered nearly every square inch.

Harry bit down on his lower lip. He had long since been hardened to the ordeal of corporal punishment, but the application of a well-made birch rod wielded by his angry uncle might prove to be a torment of great proportions.

With the skill of a golfer, Uncle Gascoigne turned his body, screeched, and then flogged the birch across the eighteen-year-old’s bare bottom with startling speed. Harry’s head rose, his mouth gaped and his face tightened, but he uttered no sound.

The birch struck again and the delinquent schoolboy swayed noticeably. His face was now as scarlet as his bottom. He shook his head from side to side, rather like a braying donkey. A third cut slashed his once-pale buttocks, small cuts ranged from his undercurves over the fleshiest part of his bottom. Already his bum was beginning to resemble raw hamburger meat.

Harry gasped, drank in a mouthful of air, then sighed long and loudly. He wriggled and writhed, but he knew better than to try to stand. To do that in the middle of punishment always meant extra strokes (it was an unwritten law). His heartrate sped as the agony travelled through his body; his legs in particular ached terribly.

Uncle Gascoigne slashed two more into the pulsating cheeks. Whip-whip. The second swipe fell low, across the backs of Harry’s thighs. His almighty screech bounced around the library. In the passageway outside, with his ear close to the door, Old Tom the Faithful Retainer winced in sympathy.

“I think you are learning your lesson,” Uncle Gascoigne intoned.

“Yes, Sir,” Harry croaked, feeling he was required to answer.

The birch flew through the air applied with considerable beef one more time connecting with the battered and bruised bottom higher. Harry convulsed. His legs marched up and down like a demented sentry, his hips swayed from left to right and his cheeks rose and fell. He wheezed heavily, sucked a throatful of vomit back down and sniffed back the snot that was promising to drip from his nostrils.

Blood raced through his body, his temples throbbed; his ears were about to explode. The agony was intense, but it was over. “Get up.” Uncle Gascoigne, himself wheezing, returned the birch to the enamel bucket. As it jangled against the side he noted how sturdy the rod was. Very expertly made, he thought.

He turned to see Harry struggling back into his underwear and trousers, the boy’s face was drenched in tears. He stood unsteady, holding the back of the chair for balance. His backside felt like he had been forced into a bathtub of boiling water; he thought he would be unable to sit down for a week.

Uncle Gascoigne pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and swabbed his brow and the back of his neck. The flogging had taken more out of him than he had expected. “You may go,” he grimaced, “And ask Old Tom outside to fetch me a glass of whisky.”

Like this:

Adam accepted my rules the first day he moved into my house as a lodger. They were clearly spelled out to him. He knew what they were. He knew the consequences if he broke them.

I’ve had lads staying with me for about ten years. They all accepted the rules. It was my way or the highway. They were not forced to stay with me. I was happy to have them in my house. But they could not be allowed to take it over.

The rules were straightforward. There was a night time curfew. Meals were at set times and had to be taken. This was a home, not a hotel. Adam was to address me as Mr Castlefield and my wife as Mrs Castlefield. He was to be polite to us at all times. He was allocated a large room with his own wash basin. He could use the bathroom at set times and there was a separate lavatory that (of course) he could use as necessary. Ours was a large detached house, there were many rooms and some were private and he was not allowed into these. There was to be no cigarettes or other tobacco brought into the house and definitely no alcohol. Guests were permitted with the express permission of myself or Mrs Castlefield but they were not to enter his bedroom. It was compulsory that he attend our church with us on Sunday mornings. He was welcome at other times as well, but this was not mandatory.

I explained the rules to Adam when he arrived and I also made sure that he understood the consequences if he broke them. Adam is nineteen years old and a trainee with a High Street bank. He is in Brocklehurst on a nine month course at the local technical college. My wife and I take many of the trainees of the bank and we have a good relationship with Mr Spencer who is in effect Adam’s boss. Mr Spencer likes us to make monthly reports to him about Adam’s behaviour. This is unofficial, but Adam knows we do this. Mr Spencer believes that a successful junior banker should not only be academically gifted and hold a number of professional qualifications, he should also be of sound moral character.

Mr Spencer and I are at one on this and that was why I did not hesitate to draw up my list of rules. I also made it clear in writing that Adam could be subjected to corporal punishment at my discretion should he break the rules. He signed an undertaking to this effect and Mr Spencer was informed.

It was a little over five weeks ago that Adam joined my little family. I would say he is mostly a good boy, but like youngsters his age he needs to be reminded constantly that he is not yet an adult. He can be very mature at times and I commend him for this. But, also he can be wilfully disobedient. I believe he tries to test how far he can go and break the boundaries of acceptability. I have seen it before with other of my charges. Such behaviour is wrong and unacceptable. Adam is fully aware of the consequences when he is disobedient.

I tell you all this by way of background because today I punished him for the first time since he arrived. There have been a number of breaches of the rules. Twice now he has broken curfew and rolled home at eleven o’clock at night. This is entirely unacceptable. He is here to work, he needs his rest at night so he can perform at his best in the classroom during the day. He has also shown signs of poor attitude. I cannot pin this down completely so it is hard to describe, but he can be surly and uncommunicative at times. I have spoken to him about his behaviour and asked for an improvement. None has been forthcoming. I also warned him explicitly of the penalty if his unacceptable behaviour continued. He cannot complain about my action.

I am pleased that when I visited his bedroom this morning he made no attempts to deny his guilt. I reminded him of the conversations we had shared over the past few days. I listed his many faults, he did not disagree when I told him he had been warned about the consequences.

Adam was still in bed when I arrived. He was startled when I loomed over his prone body but quickly regained his composure. I ordered him from his bed. Now it was my turn to be startled. I had assumed he wore pyjamas at night as all of my previous tenants did so. Not Adam, he apparently slept in his underwear. Cautiously, he stood before me dressed only in a pair of tight white trunks. They fitted very snugly and it was clear from where I stood his sizeable manhood was constrained by the smooth cotton.

He stood contritely, head bowed, hands held behind his back. I once more listed his misdeeds and they were many. Adam blushed profusely, clearly ashamed by his misdeeds, but he remained silent. “Do you have anything to say to me Adam?” I asked. I am a fair man. “Sorry, Mr Castlefield,” he said softly. I waited a little impatiently for him to say more and when it was clear he had said all he intended, I vented, “Pah! Is that the best you can do?” His face flushed some more but he remained silent.

I had already decided on my course of action. All that was left for me to do was confirm this to Adam. “Adam,” I said, “You are to be caned.” I don’t suppose this came as a surprise to him, but I let the news sink in before I added, “Stand there, until I return,” then I left the bedroom. I wasn’t away for long. I went to the cupboard under the stairs where I have a collection of curve-handled rattans, each hanging from a separate hook screwed to the wall. They were of various lengths and thicknesses and most would not have been out of place in a headmaster’s study thirty or forty years ago. The one I intended to punish Adam with was not a school cane. It was a Malay cane. It was no longer or thicker than the “senior” school rattan, but it was denser and I knew from my previous experience wielding it across the backsides of older teenagers it would be a mightily effective weapon. Gently, I took it from its hook and held it in my hand. People who handle a punishment cane for the first time often express surprise at how light it is. They do not realise that a cane, unlike a strap or an American wooden paddle for instance, is not a slapping tool. It doesn’t smack the boy’s backside, it whips into it leaving behind a thin (and often deep) welt that can throb for many hours.

I reacquainted myself with my Malay cane by flexing it between my hands. It was a little over thirty inches long and as thick as a pencil. Even so it flexed into a perfect arc with ease. It was dark yellow (almost brown) in colour and had notches spaced along it every six or seven inches. I swiped it through the air and it made a tremendous whooshing sound as it went. The noise attracted Mrs Castlefield from her kitchen. “Yes,” I replied to her unspoken question, “I am obliged to deal with Adam.” Her lips tightened but she said nothing. I could see she was in total agreement with my course of action. She returned to her kitchen and I tucked the cane under my arm and trudged slowly up the stairs.

I found Adam as I had left him, with eyes cast down and hands clasped behind his back. He didn’t raise his head when I re-entered the room but I noticed his eyes swivelled towards me. I slipped the cane into my hand and held it just under the curved handle. I wobbled the cane in the general direction of a small, low backed armchair. The bedroom was quite spacious and contained many items of high quality furniture. “Take hold of that chair and turn it so that the back faces the other way,” I said and pointed the cane so Adam was in no doubt about my instructions.

I was pleased to see that without demurring he shuffled three or four paces across the room. The chair was light in weight and he quickly had it in position. He still could not look directly at me and hovered by the chair uncertain what to do next. I had never beaten Adam and I had no idea if he had been caned elsewhere before but he must have realised my intention. “Stand behind the chair,”’ I ordered curtly. I think it is best to get on with the job in hand. “Closer boy, closer,” I complained when he moved forward but stopped a full yard away. He took a couple of pigeon steps. Now, he was in position. I took a moment to appraise the teenager who stood submissively waiting for my next instruction. I had not seen him in anyway but fully clothed before and had not noticed he had a muscular physique. His chest was broad, his stomach ripped and his legs powerful. I imagine he must visit the gymnasium often. He stood about my height but dressed in only his underwear he seemed considerably shorter. I couldn’t see his face but I knew he had brown eyes with black lashes. His hair was thick and curly and he was overdue a visit to the barber.

I flexed the cane once more between my hands and gave the final command. “Bend over that chair.” I noticed a muscle in Adam’s back twitch. Was this a sign of his apprehension? If it was he overcame it admirably because he took deep breath, rubbed the palms of his hands together and dived over the back of the chair. He reached forward and gripped the front edge of the seat cushion and he parted his legs so that the overall effect was that his head was low and his bottom high. I have already said his trunks were tight fitting and now stretched as he was over the back of the low armchair the cotton clung tightly to his meaty bottom. Each buttock cheek was lifted and separated and I had a perfect view of the ravine that ran between them.

I moved my own position slightly so that I could try to see Adam’s face. This was impossible as he kept it close to the sponge-filled cushion. His neck had turned red but I knew this was quite typical when a boy was in this upside down position as blood rushed towards his head. Adam’s buttocks were round and firm and stretched in this way unusually large. Submissively, he presented a perfect target to me. This was to be Adam’s first beating from me and fair man that I am I intended it to exemplary but not brutal. By that I mean he should know that he had been caned but there was no need for him to be bloodied. Six of the very best strokes with this dense Malay cane would leave him in no doubt that his future behaviour must improve.

I took up position to Adam’s left and placed the cane across the very centre and meatiest part of his buttocks. I “sawed” the cane as I found my aim and was delighted to see Adam’s bottom tense considerably. It was tightening up in anticipation of the onslaught that was about to follow, the two cheeks pulled tightly together trying to reduce their size so the cane would not have so much to whip down upon. Most boys do this, I assume it is a natural reaction from the buttocks. I tapped the cane across his bum maybe three times before I removed it and raised it high before with just the slightest twist of my body I brought it back down at terrific speed. It made a very agreeable (to me) crack as it hit and then sank into Adam’s bottom.

The nineteen-year-old squealed. There is no other word to describe it. It was a combination of air hissing through his clenched lips and a cry of pain. His bottom wobbled from side to side, his head rose from the cushion and his legs stamped up and down. A line appeared across the cotton of Adam’s underwear where the cane had struck and although I couldn’t see it I knew a significant welt was throbbing across his rear end.

I get on with it when I beat a boy. I see no point in cussing him between swipes or making reference to his misdeeds or demands for better behaviour in future. I count up to twenty in my head, make sure that he is steady in position and then swipe again. I put all my beef into each stroke, I couldn’t strike any harder if I were beating a carpet. Number two landed exactly where I intended, just below the first. Now he had a burning stripe across the width of his bum and it glowed white hot. Adam did the squealing and the stomping again but after a few seconds he resumed his position as quietly as possible and waited for the next stroke. I have no idea if this was Adam’s first-ever beating, but I would say he appeared to be taking it like a trooper. The next cut dug deep into the under-cheek, near where the buttocks and thighs connect. Adam let out and almighty yell and his back arched as he sprung to his feet, both hands clutching his scorched backside. I grabbed hold of his shoulder and manhandled him back over the chair placing my hand in the small of his back to keep him there. His flesh was clammy, sweat poured down his spine, although the room itself was quite cool. Adam gripped the seat cushion until his knuckles turned white.

I counted to twenty in my head then there was a brief but awesome whoosh of air preceded the wooden crack that appeared to echo round the room as Adam jerked his head up in response to the cutting pain that spread quickly across his bottom like wildfire. He breathed out noisily, drew air in and breathed it noisily out again. “Ouch!” he cried, sucking air into his lungs so sharply he must have felt his flesh tight against his cheek bones.

Another strokes rained down in parallel with the others, which worked their way up to the top of his buttocks which ultimately shook, twisted, swayed and clenched in a frantic attempt to swamp the unbelievable legacy of pain left by the cane. Adam’s chest heaved as he gasped in great gulps of breath. His thighs rubbed together as he wrestled with the demons which were chewing up his bottom.

I played the cane over the entire surface of Adam’s buttocks before raising it one last time and slicing a devastatingly accurate, forceful stroke just above his thighs. A startled yelp flew out of the boy’s mouth and bounced off the wall. His legs buckled as he fought against the savage line of pain which was charging into him. His hands dug into the cushion and his eyes watered as another cry burst from his throat.

It was over. “Stand,” I growled, determined that Adam should be fully aware of my displeasure. I knew pain was shooting from his thrashed buttocks up and down his legs as he prised himself away from the back of the chair and stood unsteadily and struggled to regain his balance with his hands hovering around, but not daring to touch, his inflamed cheeks. He staggered away and stood unsure what he was expected to do next.

With six swipes expertly delivered, I tucked the cane under my armpit, walked across the room and left. When I arrived downstairs at the breakfast room I noticed that Mrs Castlefield had thoughtfully left a soft cushion on one of the hard dining chairs.

Like this:

Richard’s knees ache against the hard floor. He has made his peace with God, he rises and straightens his back. Now, he has to face his Dad. He knows he will be waiting for him in the front room, there is a certain ritual to these things. Everything is in its place, ready to be played out. He knows what is expected. Matters must take their course.

Dad sits patiently; waiting. Patience is a virtue, he has all the time in the world. He is doing God’s will, there’s no need to hurry. He has been to his special cupboard on the top floor landing where he keeps his tools. He has quite a collection it was years in the making. There’s something for every occasion; thick and thin whippy canes (big ones, small ones). Leather straps. Tawses; some with two tails, some with three. An old worn out gym plimsoll, its sole smooth and shiny. It has never seen a running track, that’s for sure. He selected a wooden paddle this time. Small and heavy with five big holes drilled in the business end. They help it fly through the air and cut down wind resistant. It packs a punch. Just what Dad needs to help do God’s work. It is also just what Richard needs.

Richard shuffles across the passageway, he is in no hurry he can wait a moment or two more. He touches the seat of his chino trousers. It is a reflex action preparing for the ordeal ahead. It is thick material. Who is he kidding? They will be no protection, no use at all, when they are flapping around his ankles. The door is open, he sees Dad sitting on a wooden stool the paddle in his hand. He is mumbling to himself. No, not himself, he is communing with God, explaining himself, taking guidance. Suddenly, his head lifts, his blue eyes shine, he sees his son. Dad grimaces, holds the paddle in his right hand and beckons Richard forward with a finger of his left. No word is spoken. There is no need, they have both been here before, they know the script by heart.

There is no more to be said, they have already had it out. Richard has been seen in the town with boys his own age smoking cigarettes. Not Richard; he doesn’t smoke but some of the others were. That is enough; keeping bad company. There’s no point saying they are all eighteen years old and not breaking the law. Whose law? Dad would retort. Not God’s law, smoking is a sin. There is no more to be said. Poor Richard. There are so many sins: smoking, drinking, lying, swearing. And, don’t get us started on S.E.X.

Dad raises his paddle. Richard halts his progress, stops in front of Dad, looks down at him. He is probably at least fifty but looks younger with bright blue eyes, clear skin, blond hair, trim waist, thick set muscles. Every ounce a Muscular Christian. His body a temple. He frowns slightly, “Trousers down, over my knee.”

A totally expected command, but Richard’s mouth still dries. His heart beats a little faster. His stomach turns. It is his body’s way of getting ready. Preparing itself for the ordeal; for the shame, for the pain. His fingers are steady as he finds the buckle of his belt. He doesn’t need to look down, he can remove his trousers blindfolded if he has to. He’s had enough practice. The belt loosens, he pops the button at the top of his fly, then lowers the zipper. The front of his chinos open showing his gleaming white underpants; evidence of his Mother’s good housekeeping. He wriggles his hips and the chinos sliver down his thighs and bunch at the knees. He spreads his legs and the trousers puddle at his feet.

He takes a deep breath, places both palms on Dad’s right thigh and eases forward. He reaches out his hands and puts his palms flat on the carpet. Behind him his legs are short and dangle in mid-air, toes an inch or so short off the floor. His groin presses into Dad’s leg; his bottom rests at an angle.

Dad is not quite satisfied and moves Richard slightly. It gives himself a better aim at his son’s bum. Richard’s legs are further from the ground and face closer to the carpet.

Dad has his little spanking rituals; always has done. It is his job to prepare the bottom for punishment. He will be the one to take down Richard’s underpants. Dad rests his paddle on the small of the teenager’s back and with both of his hands free gently takes the elasticated waist of the pants. Slowly, carefully he eases them down over hips and across meaty (and a little chubby) cheeks. Now they are clear of the buttocks and resting at the thigh.

Richard feels a slight breeze blowing across his exposed flesh from the open window. He is breathing a little heavily. Dad is taking his time. Richard can’t see him, but feels movements in his body as he retrieves the paddle from the small of the boy’s back and rests it higher up, near the shoulder. Then carefully he grasps the tail of Richard’s shirt and folds it once, then twice until it rests neatly at the shoulders. Richard is now naked from the shoulders to the thighs.

Dad takes the paddle in his right hand and grips it tightly at the handle. It is about six inches of hard wood. Dad hovers it above the fleshy bottom; he could easy make one smack land across the centre of both cheeks at once. Or he could go lengthwise and wallop the whole of one buttock from the very top to the very bottom.

He takes the first option and brings the wood crashing down three times across the centre of both mounds. Richard gasps at the shock and screws his fingers into a claw. Dad whacks another three lower, where the curves meet the thighs. Richard yelps and kicks his legs out. A reflex to the pain that is starting in the bum then travelling down the legs.

Dad then goes for option two. Puts three whacks the length of the left cheek and three into the right. Dad doesn’t use much energy. He raises the paddle a foot or so away from the target area and brings it down with a mighty force.

Richard’s cheeks clench tighter. The paddle hangs threateningly overhead waiting for them to relax again. Then the wood falls with fury, slamming another dose of intense pain into the naked bottom.

The paddle goes up and down; up and down. Richard is stoical. He never cries. No yelp escapes his lips, he has a high pain threshold. He couldn’t count the number of times he’s been spanked. The paddle sinks into his meaty bum and remerges leaving behind another deep pink mark. Soon dozens and dozens of images of the paddle blade are emblazoned across both cheeks. And, the back of his legs.

Dad is not finished. He wants to make sure he does God’s work properly. He has a calling. Richard understands that. He is completely at the mercy of Dad (and God). So, the spanking goes on and on.